In August, we bring a set of new full-time writers to the blog. Today, please welcome Parker Yeo (’20), who will be writing for us on the 20th of each month. Parker graduated from Calvin University with a B.S. in accounting in 2020 with a minor in international relations. He earned a master of accounting degree from the Ohio State University in 2021. Originally from Cairo, Egypt, he is currently residing in Chicago. In his free time, he likes to exercise, watch soccer highlights, and scroll aimlessly through TikTok.

Nice to meet you—I’m Parker Yeo.

But it hasn’t always been. In fact, for most of my life, I went by my real name, Purun Yeo (여푸른), which means “blue” in Korean.

My sister’s name is Hanul, “sky” in Korean. My parents knew what they were going to name us before we were born. Living in Egypt, they admired the clear skies and that was that. The name is beautiful, unique, and memorable, but only if you know and speak Korean.

To an outsider, it’s just another Asian-sounding name.

The desire, maybe the primal survival instinct, to fit in is pretty powerful. After all, there would be no culture if there were no shared ideas, histories, foods, or customs if people had not banded together for millennia. In the twenty-first century, no less in the United States of America—the melting pot, perhaps I had expected something different starting university in the US. The idea that my difference, my dissimilarity would prove to be a disadvantage came as a shock to me.

Have you ever forgotten someone’s name after they’ve had to introduce themselves for what feels like the tenth time? Embarrassed and ashamed to ask for the eleventh time, you resort to a simple “hey there” or “hello friend” while skirting every opportunity to address this person by their name. I am that person whose name is always forgotten, or rather I was before I went by a different name. Repeated moments built into a pattern, and I came to the unfortunate realization that many people forgot my name in mere seconds after meeting me. Despite introducing myself to others with a big smile, I was forgettable and, worse, unnamed.

Looking around me, I observed many others with an “ethnic” name going by a more unobtrusive, Westernized name. My desperation grew proportionately to my envy for their ability to blend in. I finally caved in.

It was the summer after my sophomore year in college, and I was headed back home to Egypt to see my parents. I told them I was going to go by “Parker” instead of “Purun.” They were against it at first but after some pushing resigned themselves.

I had thought of several different English names before I settled on Parker. Going through an online list of “names that start with P,” I found the usual suspects: Paul, Peter, Philip, Patrick, etc. Then, I found Parker. It rolled off the tongue effortlessly while being unique and memorable.

I practiced introducing myself—“Nice to meet you, I’m Parker”. I made a social media post announcing my new name and updated my handles to reflect this new milestone. I began applying to internships with resumes stylized as Parker Yeo, bold and center at the top. The new people I met starting junior year never knew me as Purun but as Parker.

I was relieved, maybe, at how seamless my interactions with strangers became. With no more of “Say that again”s or “One more time please?”s, I felt my confidence rising. I was absorbed, at last—assimilated. To me, that meant my name no longer stood out.

The first few months were a bit awkward like breaking into a new pair of Doc Martens, however. The friends I made in the first two years of college provided mixed reviews, some accepting others cynical. Many asked, “What do I call you now?”. I usually told them I don’t mind either but that I would be introducing myself as Parker moving forward. After half a year, it had set in. I was Parker.

My experience is not unlike many others, I suspect. I don’t consider this dilemma of staying true to my culture versus fitting in a unique one, but more so a rite of passage or a “canon event.” Everyone has their choice to make, as I have.

Looking back, I don’t regret my decision, but I don’t look at it too fondly either. The rebrand boosted my confidence. I was sure that when I introduced myself I would be remembered and accepted, regarded as Purun, not as an unnamed, forgettable person.

My junior year, the year I went by my new name, I got the internship as Parker. A placebo effect? Maybe. The impact was not limited to my professional life. Socially, I felt more confident than ever meeting new people, with the reassurance that it was a name that would be easy to remember (“Parker? Like Peter Parker from Spiderman, yeah?”).

The Purun I had known was yet another international Asian student with a bowl cut, wanting to fit in. The Parker I had become was a bigger and better version of him, one who had internalized the culture enveloping him. Is this the American dream? Yet a part of me misses Purun, a tinge of nostalgia and mourning for a lost self. Somewhere along the way, I lost track while trying to belong and now I am paying for it, having to reconcile my bifurcated self daily. These days, I hardly know Purun.

Parker Yeo

Parker Yeo graduated from Calvin University with a B.S. in accounting in 2020 with a minor in international relations. He earned a master of accounting degree from the Ohio State University in 2021. Originally from Cairo, Egypt, he is currently residing in Chicago. In his free time, he likes to exercise, watch soccer highlights, and scroll aimlessly through TikTok.